


Otherwordly Folks: Oecumene

by H2O33



Series: Otherworldy Folks [1]
Category: BL Romance, Culturally diversed, Fantasy - Fandom, Folklore - Fandom, Hint of Mpreg - Fandom, Supernatural
Genre: Diverse Characters, Human-Supernatural Interaction, M/M, Other, Slow paced development, fairytale inspired
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-08-28 18:12:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16728408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/H2O33/pseuds/H2O33
Summary: Ever thought the world is boring?Intermingling with humans, animals, insects, and the natural elements is earthly.'Earthly', in whose perception?"Normal" would be an ambivalent sort when we dig deeper, scour through the smallest particle in this world.Possible unfathomable coexistence and pairings, thriving inter-species among familiar majority, and inexplicable capabilities in this "human" world.Fantasizing... is a habit of Tron.And what if fantasy manifests itself?Friends, lovers, families, and the strangers to him turned out be some... otherworldly folks.Should he start to question his humanity?Wanting to feel...... scared... crazy... or...enlightened.Reality is long unrealized.





	1. Greens over the Horizon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Weirds and lurkers out there](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Weirds+and+lurkers+out+there).



I am lying down in bed, gazing through out the opened window for the bright afternoon sky and the prevalent greenery. The flu made me stay home, where I could only sleep the unwellness out. I woke up with the elemental sounds of nature surrounding our rustic two-story timbered house. I then started wondering. Is all of these real? The blue sky, the gliding clouds, the mango trees nearby and the trees out far by the horizon, the birds that are chirping, the breeze wafting, and the chocolate brown-furnished plywood walls of the bedroom. I have this dissonant feeling that all the things I am seeing and hearing will disappear in a moment. Would I supposedly regress in an indefinite barren spectrum? Am I only a speckle of energy particle that is capable to power up a vivid manifestation? Would I disappear as well?

I waited. Breathe in. Breathe out. Chirp, chirp, chirp… Swish, swish, swish sh sh…

I am still in this world. I am a human. I am gazing from my bedroom, in the confines of our house. It is in a quaint area. I have the obliging consciousness to this reality that is regaling with vitality. I wanted to cry. Undeterred by the flu, I suddenly have the electrifying feeling to pursue the lively endeavors of life. I should be in my element.

My mind had wandered enough. I yawned. I feel hungry, and there is nature’s call. Funny. Remember that we are in a nature-dominant setting, so I might as well indulge our purlieu. I crawled out from bed, and then trudged on out the room, continuing laboriously down to the ground floor. I am sweating as I reached the ground floor hallway.

‘Tron?’ My father called out from the kitchen.

So, my name is Tron, short for Tronivic. My mother likes to think that I am a gift from the heaven above_ it is cliché, really. She’s a formidable reader that sweeps through comprehensive genres of reads, which is how she came up with my name. Apparently, ‘Tron’ comes from Metatron, who, from my research, is second to God_ once a human that became an angel, an Archangel at that. The attachment of the suffix “-vic”, prevalent to Slavic names which means “son of”, would wrap the meaning of my name as _the son of Metatron_. We’re not a religious family, per se, I think, collectively, we like the idea of… _eminence_. Our house is on top of a hill, a thing to consider among others.

‘Are you up?’, continued my father.

‘I’m hungry…need to pee.’, I croaked. There’re still couple yards for me to reach the flat arch that opens to the kitchen.

He came up to me from the kitchen, then said, ‘What’s that?’

‘Hungry…need to pee’, I repeated weakly.

Raising his eyebrows, he asked, ‘Is something wrong with the bathroom upstairs?’. Now hunching over me looking worried, which he might be checking if I’m delirious and near to faint, as he hovers his arms each one of my sides.

I clutched to his left arm and rested my forehead. I slurred, ‘The “mango tree” needs some watering’.

‘Ow’, he unemotionally expressed. He added, ‘You know son, I don’t put artificial or any toxic grubs into _Siemy_ and others, no other than spring water and TLC.’ We live in a mountainous area that springs are prevalent, so good for us_ cool and abundant water all year round.

I can’t tell if he is joking, but come to think of it, I haven’t seen any type of fertilizer, the artificial ones that is. Not that I saw some compost type ones either. Maybe the country soil is that rich in nutrients for the plants.

I then huffed, and glared at my father from my chin’s perch on his upper arm. I cheekily told him, ‘I think the mangoes we had for dessert last night made me sick. Trees might need other nutrients. You know that the urea in the urine is the same component in a fertilizer.’ And I grinned up at him.

Well it’s not really the mango trees’ fault. We’ve been having sweet mangoes with meals and as snacks, after season’s harvest, prior to last night_ and nothing unpleasant happen, other than me getting the flu because my immune system decided to kick back. I did some rash things, I admit. What of swimming in the river almost all day, and basking on wet clothes under the summer heat, so I would be dried up by the time I come home. It was a day on the summer vacation, that Oswin_my best friend_ and I, with three other friends from class, just propelled to have some fun in the cool waters. We had gone to the house to snack on some mangoes, afterwards.

_So, once upon a time, my father brought Cambodian mangoes from, where else, Cambodia. It is that apparent, I know. This was during their honeymoon, as they wanted to visit the temples of Angkor, and witness the Angkor Wat sunrise. They had prayed from the great power to bless them a magnificent child…that is ‘moi’. During their dilly -dallying along the street of Siem Reap, a fruit vendor wheedled them to buy yellow sweet juicy mangoes in his inventory, sprinkled with salt and chili powder. Yum! Unbeknownst to my mother, who was lovely and genial, my father was enamored by the exoticness of the taste and the tingling caress of the spices. He was hooked_ again! And so to regale his fondness, he brought the cradled yellow sweet juicy ones back in the Slavic country. Flesh had been eaten, and seed had been planted. To this day, Siemy, the mango tree, is bountiful as ever, since the day it blossomed. Come years, others had tagged along to make an orchard._

_Siemy_ and I are the same in age. My father really had established himself as a multifaceted cultivator, to my mother’s wonderment. As they regarded me as the ultimate coming_ pun intended, _Siemy_ was a commemoration to my conception and, ever since, my vitality. _Siemy_ is the oldest among the mango trees we have on our orchard, where there are thirteen trees in total bearing delightful fruits every year, only during summer time. The accumulation of produce led us to sell some at the town market, and have come to supply a couple of local small restaurants, including Oswin’s family restaurant.

My father usually have help from neighbors during harvest, often times, Mr. and Mrs. Zeman, and this past two years, the Margolin brothers, Adrijan and Henrik_ passing summer break in an atypical diligence from teenagers at their prime. Notwithstanding the case that their family, own a valuable building construction firm. One would speculate for them to help in the family business. As a matter of fact, off what I picked on, the family was hooked the moment my father brought them some mangoes from the first ever harvest of the trees.

…

 ‘I don’t know where did you get the inkling to _flash_ at the orchard, but where do you think would all the harvest go if people recoil from our mangoes, because while you are relieving yourself on a mango tree_ or are you planning to endow on all the trees, someone passes by and saw such unpleasant view, and all hail and beyond, a red flag had been raised against the mangoes. Poor mangoes.’, he bantered.

Come to think of it, other than tarnishing the mango business’ reputation, would I be disrespecting the trees, or I am instead a source of nourishment to them. And it wouldn’t be called flashing, per se, since it’s in an orchard_ trees all around, enough to cover up a… tenth-ish of my vertical size_ _unless some unworldly someone is watching from behind the tree through a camouflaged portal._

 _Thinking… thinking…_ I still need to relieve my bladder.

‘Fine. Can you make turkey sandwich, please.’, I said in settlement.

‘I’ll make it. Feel better, son.’, he endeared, as he kissed the top of my head. I get that I am sick, but how old do he think I am. I’m already fifteen, going sixteen three months from now.

I then went to the toilet notched in under the staircase. Our house is space-efficient, with a minimalist arrangement. It’s cozy as well.

I went out from the toilet after washing my hands, and proceeded for the kitchen. My stomach growled when I saw the abounding sight of the sandwich my father prepared.

‘Do you want milktea with that?’, my father asked, as I sat on the bench complementing the copper-stained pine long table_ serving as our dining set.

‘Uhu’, I intoned while I nodded.

I took a bite on the sandwich, and was elated by the bursting flavors relished by the fresh basil, tomatoes, lettuce_ courtesy of my mom’s garden, pickled onions, and braised turkey slices. Honey-mustard on the side, of course. I munched carefully, realizing the fact that my mouth is dry from napping almost half the day. I should have drank water before gorging in. In time, my father set the hot milktea on the side. I looked up to him as I munch, I smiled_ eyes crinkling, cheeks dimpling.

He smirked, briefly ruffling my wavy chin-length hair, and went on to his favorite nook. He sat on the right rattan woven tub chair, set with a glass-topped two-feet repurposed pine stump by the alcove. Just couple yards from the dining set, there’s the bay window with minimalistic geometry-carved trim of triangles and squares, making the alcove area gratifying.

Savoring in the afternoon luster_ created by the sun’s rays refracting into glass, I felt like the flu vanished as if light streaks went through into my system, and zapped the bane. My father is skimming through _“The Calendar of Wisdom”_ by Leo Tolstoy as a moment of repose. Being a professor of Philosophy at the University of Zagreb back when the mango business was in its pre-boom, he still pursues in the field, as he authored few academia books, and from time to time lectures in symposiums.

In light of the story of my family, we live in Ogulin, Croatia, as my father, Heahmund Lind, is Croat who came from the town of Senj; and my mother, Samajan Takao, whose family hails from the Philippines_ making her Filipino in nationality_ grew up mostly in Bern, Switzerland. She had a Swiss residence permit while being a citizen of the Philippines. After marrying my father, she had been appropriated to renounce her citizenship, to be able to claim citizenship in Croatia through naturalization. As per law in Croatia, you must have been born from at least a Croat parent or off Croat ethnicity to be granted dual citizenship. She haven’t renewed her Swiss residence permit since its expiration as well. We had previously visited the Philippines on few occasions. To my grandparents when they were staying in the country and to my other relatives: mostly in Baguio City, where my maternal family had been established. Remembering, it is a cool place, being that it was situated at high altitude, among other provinces in Cordillera region. The Cordillera region is one of the thread-through of the Sierra Madre mountain range that spans across the Northern Philippine regions, which could be the equivalent of the Himalayan mountain range, that spans across countries along the Tibetan Plateau.

Of how they met, my father went for his doctorate studies at National and Kapodistrian University of Athens, and at one point, my mother_ being the ever old world-quintessence enthusiast_ toured in Greece. That led to them meeting at the Acropolis of Athens_ let’s just say, in the destined place and time.

Could Aphrodite had graced her vigor?

They wedded in a nature-themed ceremony, which had kind of a whimsical ambiance (I’ve seen photographs). And so, they have since decided to establish a family of their own in Ogulin_ _where fairytales happen._


	2. Invitation to Eat, Summer's Over

‘How did summer vaca have been that quick’, Oswin said with a huff. We were perched on a sturdy trunk of Siemy (we relate to the mango tree as family), getting our laxed time as we talk about just random things, while listening to Radiohead_ _High and Dry_ was on at the moment.

‘Tell me about it’, I concurred. ‘What did we even do throughout, rather than just go swimming, eat mangoes, take bike rides, and… that’s about it’, I resumed_ and sipped from my tumbler with mango shake in it. Oswin made the shake, because he’s interested to all things that is cooking… and food: considering their family manages a seafood restaurant. We both love food. Who doesn’t?

‘Oh yeah!’, he exclaimed. ‘Why don’t we have a cookout? I’ll asked my dad to pitch in some fish.’, suggested he. Really this kid, just bringing about anything that comes in his radar. He’s always been spontaneous that borders into being impulsive, hence, I would then be telling him off to relax. But for now, his suggestion could be a fantastic idea, as somewhat a bright way to finish off the summer vacation.

‘Ok. Maybe we could carry it out here. I’ll tell dad.’, I concluded.

‘Let’s get down, shall we, and tell your dad already.’, he compelled: overcompensating on excitement.

I chuckled, influenced by his delight, and  hopped off the branch_ landing casually on the grass patch of the tree base. Oswin following behind, exclaiming glee. What a vivacious fella, my best friend is.

As we started to walk back to the house, while sipping our mango shakes, Oswin noticed the Margolin brothers down the foot of the hill, where their house (mansion) and crafting shop building are laid out on acres of land with a backwoodsy landscape_ five football fields can easily fit in it. Our purlieu is just above the twelve-meter terraced retaining wall buttressing the partially flattened mound where the foundation of our property is contained. The supporting structure goes along the winding sloped path, thinning out towards the plain below. In contrast, our land is barely two-fifth of theirs. Over the fenced perimeter of the orchard, we saw them seemingly preparing to plant some shrubs about their makeshift pond, and putting some waterlilies on the water surface.

The ever so friendly, Oswin, put his index finger and thumb to his mouth, pressing on the tongue, blew out a zinging whistle intended to the brothers. I gathered that he established an acquaintance to the brothers, since their family is a constant diner to the _‘Trident’_ _ the seafood restaurant of the Skaeter’s (Oswin’s family name). Expectedly, the brothers looked up, and Adrijan_ the older brother_ grinned as he recognized us both; me, as the mango manager’s son, and Torin, as the friendly Torin by the _‘Trident’_ , of what I deduced. Maybe. Who knows? Henrik on the other hand, came up with a barely noticeable nod towards us_ face nonchalant, and resumed his ministration of planting.

Adrijan said something while still looking at us to his brother_ more on Oswin because he was aggressively waving and jabbering. His brother then smiled, teeth showing (I saw white flash, even from the distance), still on his shrubs. _‘That one (to Oswin) is all over the place like the blow (inflatable) man by their restaurant, and uncle Heahm’s son (to me) is definitely awkward, planted like a tree, he could as well live in their orchard’_. I could not help to deduced (creatively). How else could his brother made such reaction. Teenaged boys would most likely smile or laugh when it involves crass comments are made to someone or something; far from finding someone or something adorable like by a meek elderly lady_ which they obviously are not_ would most likely do. Burly dudes_ which admittedly, they are_ like roughing up. They’re like a Pharaoh’s coach carriers, what with their wide shoulders, over six-foot tall standing, coppery complexion (there mother is off Turkish and African descent), and wiry physiques (the blokes’ upper bodies were on their coppery naked glories at the moment).

Compared to us, we seem like having the physiques of the standard human model, to which male reproductive organs were attached; nubs on the chest thoughtlessly slapped on.

Ok, so what my mind can cropped up might be caused by inferiority. Mind you, I am contented with myself. It’s not like I cannot do the things I like with my present body. I’d rather read, paint in a pleasant atmosphere, perched on trees immersed in my wild imagination, riding bicycle, rollicking with Oswin, and eat delicious food.

I am pleased with my amber eyes, just like my mother. I got my auburn-ish thick wavy hair from my father and my fair complexion as well. My features do complement each other_ immaculately, from an artist perspective_ so I was told by my mother, since I came home one day during third grade pouting and bothered (not crying, really), because I was teased for looking ‘like a girl’_ for a kid’s lack of describing words. As for my height, as of at the age of fifteen, I am at five and a half foot tall. There could be a chance to grow still, I hope it would be to a noticeable stretch.

But… looking at the Margolin brothers, and others of their ‘kind’, seems like as if their some kind of superhuman. Invincible looking, illness-immune, and just… strong! Speaking of ‘super’, in the case of superheroes, they have the in-your-face power of specialty. My specialty would be mind power_ _if I could just drop a cow on their heads, conjured through thinking about it would be a joy to witness_. Oswin could be ‘Rogue’; it’s befitting. He is slightly taller than me. His hair is in a fiery red-orange curly poof_ shaved beneath the sides of his head, and would usually prim it into a mohawk-style prep. It’s like a red-orange longish loofah atop his head. He have the usual red-head features of freckles spread on his nose and under-eyes, and pale complexion. His face is borderline ethereal, just lacking of a pair of elongated ears. _‘Now, if he could just stand beside a veiny Whisteria tree about a lake on a full moonlight, with the tree’s clear reflection on the water… he’d be suspected as a Siren_ who’s going to feed on human souls, and dump their devitalized bodies deep down the water, in the pool of skeletal remains.’_ _Then… cut!_ Segue moment.

Unlike Oswin, I’m not outgoing. I am awkward, though I had managed to warmed up to few people_ Oswin, being to whom I am most comfortable with, save for my own family.

‘Invite them to come over at the cookout. I’ll hail them over’, he pestered at me.

Both brothers on to us, seeing Oswin signaling them to come near (as near to the retaining wall toe that is), the two faced each other_ scrutiny evident in the act. They acquiesced, and slowly came closer. Henrik behind his brother, to which he prodded for his brother to lead on, anticipating what would Oswin would tell.

Oswin nudged at me, and hurriedly said, ‘Go! Tell them!’. He also supplemented it by pointing at me while looking at them, for them to lay eyes on me. So, they did. Adrijan raised both his eyebrows, looking up at me with a curious smile. Henrik seemed bored, stretching his hands to the side; the ground is more interesting, it appears.

_‘What the hell though! Can’t they put on their shirts, tucked in their jeans pocket, coming closer as they regard us!’._ Rather than telling them to come at the impulsively planned cook-out, I would urbanely tell them off to fucking not be so bold in front of_ sufficed to say_ unwonted presence… meaning me. They could had worked in the orchard, but we don’t really interact: occasionally, peering at each other, since I’m the one segregating mangoes, while them picking off the mangoes. Mr. Zeman would be the one to bring the harvest over to me, in a forklift through the prearranged secured path that winds along the short-ranged slope going to the flat ground of the house’s yard.

I was gobsmacked the moment all attentions were on me. _I swear Oswin. Are you really my friend?!_ My mind does not have that spur-of-the-moment rapport, hence, I can’t speak for a while_ thanks to Oswin not giving me the chance of rearing.

‘Uhm…nn…yeah!’, my words stumbled. _Yeah right… like ‘yeah’ is very informative. Fuck! Where did my tact go?! If I won’t show them that I am intellectually capable_ could be more than them, then what remains of me!_ _Focus!_

‘We… we…are planning to conduct a cookout. To where and when it will be commenced: respectively, in our house’s yard, on the weekend before summer vacation is over. Most likely, it would be two days before the new school semester begins.’, I delivered.

Oswin was looking over at me like I grew another head. I glanced at the brothers below, and I could swear Adrijan’s lips twitched_ begging to burst into a smile. Henrik was looking now at the sky above _(Really this dude! To where his interests goes is symptomatically ‘off-base’.)_. I looked over at my best friend, and said, ‘What?’.

He rolled his eyes, then supplied, ‘You do realized that where not in a formal meeting of the student body? I know that you’re used to the SC secretary job, but just act… speak casual. Chill!’ I raised my left eyebrow, not understanding his concern. He narrowed his eyes, regrading me as if I have done an unfavorable act.

‘I mean, yank that stick out from your derriere.’, he admonished.

I got pissed, and cautioned, ‘I really want to smack that loofah head of yours, you rooster!’.

‘Now we’re talking. Sway your words more, cause you tend to speak flat-lined.’, he bantered.  

_‘What does he even mean by sway my words. His choice of words sometimes… is a bit nutty.’,_ I internally admonished. Truthfully, I only talk before an audience in a formal setting when academics are involved; otherwise, I am shy in general. The formality is a recurring feat of mine when faced with foreign spectators. I supposed.

‘Come again fellas!’, Adrijan boosted out. Might’ve been wanting to go back to their tasks for a while.

Rerunning the invite, Oswin announced, ‘We’re having a cookout this Saturday at Tron’s yard. We’d like you two or your group to come. The more the merrier, right! If you’re about to ask why: the vacation would be over in a few days, so why not finish it with a bang. There would be fireworks!’.

Ok, compared to my way of statement earlier, his was… jolly.

Since Oswin appeared to be not serious, cause he tends to have overplaying bouts_ with my years of being his friend, I was going to second for reassurance... Adrijan chuckled sonorously.

At the same time…

‘That could be a good thing.’, Adrijan. ‘What are you cooking?’, Henrik (I am starting to believe him to be incapable of vocalization, but then he unexpectedly talk_ what more, asking as if he caught us red-handed brewing some concoction that would thwart him. Way to be … _‘No Tron! He’s not overbearing. He just slipped in the inflection. Don’t be rash now self.’)_.

Oswin cheekily supplied, ‘Something nice. We promise that it’s edible.’, then he grinned_ looking at Henrik. He afterwards elbowed me, meaning me to speak. Thanks for the regard… truly… ugh.

‘Well, yeah… please come over’, I glanced at Oswin, continuing, ‘on Satruday. It’d be nice to call others over there at the estate as well.’. I thought I ended up waning my voice, because the brothers were still looking at me_ Oswing was fixed on his smile… like a fool.

Barely shouting, I designingly said, ‘There’s still a lot of mangoes on stand, so we should share them before they get spoiled. My father would also be glad to have company over’.

Adrijan widely smiled before saying, ‘Definitely, we will go. Can’t refuse the sweet mangoes now, can we? I’ll inform the others, and regards to uncle Heahm, Tron.’. He had somehow gleaned about my name.

I slightly smiled_ feeling winsome, and said, ‘Okey’.

He saluted at us, about to turn around. ‘It had been a while, so we better keep up with our work.’, Adrijan related. ‘See you guys!’, tapped his brother, and they strode to their area of work; that without Henrik peering at… me, nodded once, and then turned his head. I don’t really know what to make off him. He’s the opposite of his brother, personality wise… clearly.

‘Hmmmnnn…’, intoned Oswin. ‘Better we start our work too. Let’s get to-whom-it-may concern’s approvals, then we plan about Saturday.’, he announced.

‘Shouldn’t we first have gotten approvals, before you raved at people.’, I countered.

‘No.’, he thoughtlessly said, then turned and trudged cheerfully into the house. He just left me without any inkling of an argument with that snippety answer. The loafer!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really like to have relationships between characters to develop slowly (romantically that is). I do hope not to get off track because it is expected to have many things to happen that would lead to that 'feels' by the characters. All aboard guys, and enjoy the 'scenery'_ should be good ones_ I wish.


	3. Hop on! The more, the merrier.

‘Hello uncle Dobs’, I greeted Oswin’s father, when I entered the vending shop at the first level of the _‘Trident’_.

‘Trony!’, he exclaimed, putting gloved hands on his hip, exiting from the plastic door strips of the walk-in freezer. Perusing me with his hazel eyes just like of his son as I near the counter, where he was now behind at; he beamed full on when he landed his sight on mine. ‘How are you over at the “hill”’, he tendered, referring to our house at a top of hill_ to say the least, we’re the only household on the tableland.

‘All good uncle. Dad said to come over and ease up the knots off your Poseidon throne. He had recliners set as we speak.’, recounting my conversation with my dad before I left home to him. I smiled up to him, as a booming laugh came off him, echoing within concrete walls and tiled mosaic furnish of the shop.

Together with the whole building theme, which is ‘sea kingdom’, the shop simulates as the sea king’s throne room. A three tiered design configurating a truncated cone_ four feet in height_ settled on the center of the room. Each tier terrace is sectioned for the assortment of fish and other seafood to be placed. Along the three walls are aquariums that keeps live eels, lobsters, and crayfish. The most prominent feature of the themed shop would be the rotating Poseidon’s throne on top of the truncated display structure which technically a fountain. The throne’s design have the backrest capturing a pearl’s shell, by the elliptical outline and the delineated surface. Sprouting from the outline of the shell are the prong peaks of the trident_ the two side prongs slightly flaring out. Depicted splashes of waves form a seat, and a seemingly creature’s tentacles emerging from the waves to form as armrests. Water cascades from the hollowed points from the prong tips of the trident, some along the lining of the shell, and some from the tentacles. Water cascades in a way that the throne would only be slicked with a gloss; the blasted concrete and metal interaction_ showcasing a submerged concept_ making the throne structure is clearly distinguishable.

At the center of the ceiling, a spanning realistic pearl shell painting on the white surface is interblending to the round white-luminescing light fixture, of which it portrays a shell mollusk enfolding its pearl. A paneled light fixture, about four inches in thickness, lined through the ceiling and wall edges: changing colors off blue and green hued light tints. The elongated windows, in between aquariums, and the a trident-shaped glass window by the entrance allow the natural light to come in through.

On the remaining side of the walls has the door to the walk-in freezer; and a long counter that is made out of a repurposed wave-shaped rhyolite igneous rock piece amalgamated to acrylic glass_ tinted into a sea palette ombre effect_ replicates a sectional area of the sea, serves as the cash register area. Two brass hanging circular spring scales was placed above the counter, slightly off the sides of the brass-plated NCR class 500 cash register machine on center_ it’s a working piece with the sole purpose of sales input, else ways, a brass-armored POS cash register machine is mainly utilized for accounting, which is placed on a treasure chest inspired mahogany matrix cabinet_ converged to the counter at one end. Blobs and ripples of water shadows casted by the aquariums on the sea green furnish of the walls notwithstanding, upon entering the shop, anyone would be rendered an exceptional in-sea ambiance.

‘Ever the philosopher, your father is. I’ll wait for Magda and the others to finished in about two hours above floors, and then we’ll drive over to yours.’, he stated. He called me over behind the counter so I can get one of the small-sized ice box_ containing fish I presume_ then we both went and placed the two containers on the side of double door to the shop. ‘Now where’s that kid?’, referring to Oswin. He proceeded to the spiral staircase built at one end corner of the floor area_ leading to the diner upstairs_ tilted his head, looking up through the hollowed section, and hollered for Oswin to come down. Within few minutes, someone is trudging down the stairs… Oswin. He had an apron on, a telltale of assisting maybe in the food prep on the floor above.

‘Torns!’ (apparently, his nickname of me), he blared. Like father, like son.

‘ _Tata_ , are the fish ready?’, he asked his father, while doffing the apron off him. He then hanged it on one of the hooks beside the freezer door.

‘All you have to do is to lodge the ice boxes on your bicycles, and peddle your asses to kingdom Hill.’, uncle Dobs drolly supplied.

‘I don’t know if my aqueous framework can stand the long journey on an ornery land.’, Oswin countered, acting as if he’s some _‘carp’_ from the _Little Mermaid_ movie about to start his life from the natural comforts of the water, feigning a worried face.

I rolled my eyes, while his father smirked and threw a pebble of crushed iced to him from the seafood display stand. Uncle Dobs then bellowed, ‘Save that to nourish you up in you journey dear.’, laughing afterwards. _OMG! Stop with the role-playing. I’m not going be a ‘flounder’!_

‘O-okaaay… that’s creative. Let’s go Oz. See you later uncle Dobs!’, I concluded. I hoisted one of the ice box, and started to pull open the door.

‘Wait! Where’s your “bowl”?’, Oswin, intending to vex. ‘You’ll dry out in the air, considering that you seem to always have water (cold) poured over your head.’, he pestered, as he smirked at me. _Oh the bastard knows idioms… what else, while still being relatable to the act he’s putting up._

I pierced a look to him, and sassily said, ‘As much as I can’t help to not be your friend, unfortunately, I refuse to keep up with your spontaneous nutty character role-play. I am going to be viewed as a mentally healthy human being, if you may.’ I cleared my throat, posing seriousness… well, I tried. I couldn’t helped it, so I smiled. I huffed, then nonchalantly beckoned, ‘Come on “ _Ariel”_. Let’s go.’.

Uncle Dobs, not minding us for long, started segregating the displayed seafood in compartments with crush ice to store in the walk-in freezer. All costumers were dining upstairs, choosing well to eat the scrumptious food served by the Straeters. The fish would still be consumed whatever end it goes.

Oswin and I proceeded outside_ him skipping. We secured one ice box each on the cart attached to the back spindle of our bicycles. We waved back to Oswin’s father inside, pronouncing our take off.

††††††††††††

We’d pedaled for almost half of the way to the house. Neither one of us was talking, because of the whoosh of the wind against our course; speaking would be for naught as we coasted along the far-reaching open fields that converges to the bends of the Klek mountain.

Surreptitiously, or due to the wind hindering our senses, a black pick-up truck_ that of a Nissan Navarra_ happened to gain on us, as noticed when suddenly whoever’s driving honked at us. Heeding that as a warning to keep to the side, I decelerated so Oswin would go directly ahead of me_ forming a single line to give more space for the pick-up to pass through.

The car drove forward parallel to us, but just kept with our speed. For a short moment, the window to the passenger’s side rolled down, revealing Mrs. Lulu Margolin_ mother to Adrijan, Henrik, and the twins, Emir and Erhan_ signaling a hand, meaning us to wait or stop. Both Oswin and I braked, and eye-followed the car until it pulled over a few yards in front of us. We pedaled through the few yards to reach the car, as Mrs. Margolin get off through the passenger’s side door.

‘Oh my. Boys, you better hopped on with us. The bicycles could get on the truck bed… Henrik, help them heave those up on.’. She looked over at us again, and smiled. We both smiled to her shyly, and looked at each other afterwards, perplexed. The door to the driver’s side opened, and out comes Henrik, sauntering towards us. I was caught by his gaze as he neared on; in slight moment, Oswin merrily said ‘thank you’ to Mrs. Margolin, and I cut my gaze to Henrik then turned my head abruptly towards his mother to be grateful as well. My cheeks heating up. _What in the hell just happened!?_

We dislodged the ice boxes from the cart to securely placed them on the truck edge. Henrik, without preamble, heaved my bicycle with the cart on onto the truck bed. That left me and Oswin to carry together his bicycle onto the compartment. _Way to show-off thy manliness._

After her supervision to our task, Mrs. Margolin spurred us to hop on the backseat. She waited until we seated ourselves inside, before she embarked. Her son followed, revved the car ignition, and then drove. I noticed a box, containing what seem to be groceries, placed on top of the center console of, was being supported by Mrs. Margolin. It might had just been placed there just before we get on the car_ by Henrik it seemed, since he somewhat took a while before getting off to help us. A depression that of partly an outline of a square could be made out from the car’s soft carpeting.

Meekly, I expressed to Mrs. Margolin, ‘Ma’am, I could take this one for you, and secure it on our side.’.

‘Well thank you. You’re an angel.’, she uttered. I proceeded to place the box between the two of us at the backseat, on the car matting.

‘He’s a cherub, specifically ma’am.’, Oswin quipped, and he snickered. I saw a glimpse of Henrik’s side lip lifting up, as I could easily see his side profile from where I am seated. I extended my left arm to the back of Oswin’s head, clasped a clump of his hair, then pulled. He chuckled as a reaction. _Can’t he jammed his trap for a break._

Apparently, I look like a _putto_ (a usually naked male child with wings_ cherub, if you may); that was when  during our history class in sixth grade, discussing about Humanism and Renaissance, we were shown paintings of the Renaissance era through a projector. One prominent subject of arts and craft at that era was the _putto_ putti_ in plural form. So, upon viewing a particular painting exhibiting these winged toddlers, someone among the class decided to point out that the me back then looked like one of the celestial children. That was when the affinity started among class, and partially at school. Back then, I was one of the small students in our grade, including Oswin. My hair was curly_ though it went into wavy as I grew_ with its auburn nature. I had a mophead going on… ok, until now, but tamer. As a kid, I’ve got flabs, and was chubby. You could say, I was cute as a button back then. I have outgrew them, mostly… now, I am not so kid-ly anymore. My face started to get sharp, thanks to puberty, and I’m taller_ to say the least.

‘Can’t say you’re not the same’, she jollied to Oswin, after she chuckled by his teasing. ‘You two are adorable.’ This time, Henrik made a sound… by tersely chuckling. Although the statement was laid in a motherly and in all good tenor, it came on as a jibe because of her son’s reaction. _Way to distort an affectionate impression._

‘We’re teenagers, ma’am. We can’t be adorable.’, Oswin said, pouting, despite his assertion.

‘Why not?’, Mrs. Margolin countered. ‘Even a hulk of a man my husband is, I still call him adorable when I deem it so.’, she followed, as she giggled.

‘And please, just call me Lulu.’, she extended. ‘We’ve been eating in at your family restaurant, and have been neighbors for almost your whole life, don’t be formal on me now.’, she called, then smiled at us.

I nodded to her meekly, and smiled as well.

‘So…’, Oswin started to utter, then continued, ‘do you also call your sons adorable?’. He beamed, gleaning for friskiness.

Lulu bellowed a laugh. On the rear view mirror, Henrik’s face cringed. _Cheeky Oswin_ I like._

‘Definitely! See to it how they try so hard not to roll their eyes when I call them adorable, knowing well that I’m not going to serve them meals.’, she related.

_Clever woman, and strong. I deduced._

We chuckled, except for Henrik, whose forehead is crunched_ concentrating to driving.

Their estate came to view, that means we’re about to reach ours too in just a moment.

‘Come with us for a short while in the house, to get my pots for the party and other ingredients, before we proceed up hill to your house. I’ll have to remind the others too.’, Lulu said when she faced me.

‘Oh sure. We’d like to help.’, I responded.

After telling my father about our planned cook-out slash party, he conceded to make it happen, also realizing that he need catching up to his friends and acquaintances, who are few neighbors and the Straeters_ en masse, the-ones-in-Ogulin speaking. Oswin’s house is near town center, given their restaurant. So he called the Margolin’s (the parents at that), Oswin’s parents, the Zemans_ from what I gathered_ to officially invite them to the ‘summer’ party at our house.

We’re on the approach road to the estate, passing through the entrance stone pillars.

The pillars were designed as totem poles: carved into a man on top of a wolf for the left pole, and a wolf on top of a man for the right pole. The cusps of both were formed as textured _troll cross_ , but instead of a hollow center, a round-shaped prominence was lodged through it. That’s the impression it gives, otherwise, the process of carving it could be different. In totality, they tower easily at one level and a half of our house, and girthing about three of me, circling my arms around the pole. My wingspan is the same as my height, considering. _Mind you, I’m not as perfectly proportioned as the Vitruvian man._ They’re enormously sized; each, is one continuously carved piece. Of how they manipulated two humungous rocks to be carved, and achieved almost sheer alignment after implanting, most definitely requires the precise feats of handling technology… _otherwise, they used magic that of levitation through chants_ … _or had Troll workers that carried the rocks from the esoteric recesses of their dwellings…_ whatever unexplained complexities the world has to offer… magic and fantasy would deliver.

Tracking through the elliptical patch of the driveway, the car skipped the intersecting thoroughfare to the front of the mansion, continuing through the mound rounding to the back, finally stopping directly to the portico that leads to the kitchen.

I had been in the Margolin’s house on past occasions, considering we’re immediate neighbors, resulting to the adults being friends. On those occasions, about a third of my living years did I fall in with the brothers. I was ten at the time that I first met the Margolin children. They initially, until now, were studying in Ganz, Austria_ where their mother is from, apart from having a branch of the family’s line of business in that city. It had been two years since the two elder brothers started to help out in the mango harvest over at the orchard; in turn, they would be bade with mangoes to share to the family.

We saw the twins, Emir and Erhan, lounging on the seats prepared at the portico, volleying a soccer to each other from across a wooden rectangular ottoman. Except for Henrik, we all got off the car. Lulu eyed the twins, then instantly ordered them, ‘You two help me to get some things, come.’, gesturing them to come with her. She turned to us, motioning us to seat at the vacated furniture by the brothers, then said, ‘You two seat. Let them be the ones to help me, ok.’. The three went inside, in time for Henrik to got off the driver’s side of the car. He let the car door hang on its hinges, rested his hand on the sill through the opened window. He allowed himself to lean back on the side of the driver’s seat.

Instead of sitting on the rattan armchairs, Oswin and I chose to stand and walk languidly.

Henrik, aiming for conversation, asked, ‘Anyone else who’d be coming at the party?’. Unnoticed, Oswin walked further by the miniature fountain at the side of the shaded extension, lingering there. Since I’m the one closest, I feigned confidence to answer him, ‘Oswin’s family… uhm… the Zeman’s. That’s all I know through my father.’ Wanting to come off as welcoming, because we would be hosting the venue, I added, ‘We hope for all of you to be able to come. If it’s possible to close off your shop early that is. Although some of your… entourage… could come at a later time, so they can finish their tasks of the day.’ _I’m babbling. Chill Tron!_

He looked at me for a short moment, then smirked. _Oh now, here comes the ‘you’re so weird’ comment._ I waited.

He said, ‘Well, there’re only four persons in that shop, including Adrijan, my Dad, Gramps, and crafting foreman.’. He’s inspecting me, then he furthered, ‘The dogs would be guarding the house if you’re worried about that too.’. Now he’s teasing. _Condescending goon._

Clandestinely trying to mock him, I responded, ‘Oh great, then they’re so reliable, bet they would telepathically call out to you when some suspecting lots scamper on the property.’.

He bellowed a laugh, inserting, ‘Sure. Because we’re that muchly endowed.’.

Turning my head, and looking over at Oswin_ still not minding to join me, so then I teetered looking at nothing at particular through the property environ. On my peripheral vison, Henrik’s still staring at me. So, I settled on resuming the conversation, and asked, ‘So… where are the dogs?’. I looked over at him. Why his expression has a glint of fascination…. _is because he’s a patronizing brute_ that’s what he is_. _He is reveling on the display of me metaphorically stumbling, of which he have caused._ As far as I know, he’s the only person to rub me the sore way, by only his look.

He ignited a high piercing whistle out to the broad open backyard. He faced me, saying, ‘They should come. Just wait.’.

Oswin, attracted by the sound as if he’s the one being called, appeared beside me. ‘What’s that about?’, he inquired.

‘Wait.’, I clipped.

A thundering bark came from the direction of the crafting building. We slid our gazes that way, and came hustling towards us are three… _wolves?_.

Henrik detached himself from the car seat then shut the car door. He squatted to meet the accosting mutts, patting and fraying their furs. He playfully pushed each one of their heads as he languidly stood, observing them smiling_ genuinely putting such expression, what more.

One “dog” has dark coat a with white bristling on its paws and the underside of its belly and tale, having a white mask with black nose line and edges. The other one is a combination of grey coating with white to cream bristles, and its mask is grey on the top half and white on the bottom half. The remaining one is that of an ombre color coating of cream and white overall, which would be the most striking among the three.

‘What are they?’, I queried to him. Oswin squatted at his place beside me, then he begun to call the “dogs”.

Henrik looked at me, one eyebrow raised.

‘I mean, what breed are they?’, I cleared. _‘Other than not dogs’_ , I interned in my mind.

‘They’re wolfdogs.’, he supplied.

_So they really have “wolf” on them._

The white one gaited towards Oswin, then smell his offered hand when it reached him. It licked that part, and Oswin crumpled his face. It switched its regard on me, perking its head. _Oh, seems amiable._ Compelled to give it an answering ministration, I carefully reached out my hand to its snout, for it to smell. Hoping it would not gnash on my hand. It smelled it, and licked… _ugh_ , then rest on its haunches before me and Oswin.

‘Good… boy, girl… uhm… dog.’, my best friend praised.

I looked at the other two placidly crouched by Herik’s foot, and witnessed them eying me. I tried to move out their train of sight_ maybe in the a wolfdog’s mechanism of vision, they’re looking at something at my back, making them capable of tunnel vision… maybe_ but they twisted their heads to follow my thread. _Oh, they’re consciously looking at me_. I am hemmed of being wary of them, so I’m about to let Henrik know of the peculiar look his dogs are giving… _and he, too, is staring at me_. Oswin’s back on squat to coo at the _nice_ dog. _Why do I fell unlikeable all a sudden?_

Focusing my eyes to Henrik’s, I forewarned to him, ‘Your dogs over there might be too intent_ which they’re still on, mind you_ on staring at me. I know it’s not an imagination because they’re following my move as I tested just a while back.’ _Shut up! You’re babbling again. Way to be extra! You could have been jumped already if the dogs were really feral._

He smirked _(the sadist!)_ , then he look down at the dogs, confirming my concern_ _thank heavens they didn’t change course for him to be validated_ _ looking back at me, afterwards.

‘Don’t worry, they’re not showing signs of attacking. I know that for sure. They’re placid, as you can see.’, he vouched.

_I see that, but they may be friskily temperamental without any of us knowing, more so, to strangers like me._

‘That is assuming I am worried… but maybe I am just expressing the possibility that your dogs, though peculiar to a stranger, could be… … … _fond_ of me. For lack of better word.’, I matched, feigning confidence to my likeability.

‘Maybe they’re recognizing a kin, being that you’re _wolfish_.’, Oswin inserted, stretching from his squat.

I squinted at him, then uttered in peeve, ‘What does that supposed to mean?’.

He indicated to my face, flaying in act, _‘Ooh, what fierce eyes you have’_ , then giggled. _Bastard_.

‘Shut it _ginger riding hood._ ’, I jeered back.

‘You’re intermixing tales, my friend.’, he pointed out.

I huffed at him.

‘Breeds of the same temperament, gravitates together. As the saying goes.’, he badgered.

‘Stop with the parodies, that’s not a saying.’, I remarked. Consciously training my eyes to the dogs, which are now resting their heads on their forlegs… peering, just the same. _I think they’re safe… maybe._

‘Well, it’s a saying, ‘cause I said it.’, he retaliated.

_Touché._

Henrik laughed, head backed.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first-ever gearing towards self-publishing/publicizing my story piece. Describing characters, locations, many things... and I'm running out of words_ mind's jumbled. I'm making sure that every citation or scene has elemental connections in the novel_ no matter how weird as they get. So guys...
> 
> bombard me with words, through comments and reactions. The more "colorful" it is, the better.  
> And if I see "dull pallet", I'm going to wallow in swimming through all the rays of the sun, until I get me some "kaleidoscope".


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